That Time in Paris, Logan Ryles [room on the broom read aloud TXT] 📗

“Confirmed, Charlie One,” Lyle said. “I have him on satellite. Raven is exiting the cab and approaching Café Les Deux Magots.”

“This could be it,” Edric said. “Park the bikes, and move in. Eyes on the street.”

“Copy that, Charlie Lead. Moving in.”

The highway rumbled beneath the tires of Wolfgang’s bike as the buildings fell away and the road rose onto a bridge. Sunlight blazed down, warming his back and glistening off the glassy surface of the river Seine, stretching out to either side. Wolfgang stole a glance to his left and caught sight of France’s famed Grand Palais, rising like a football stadium to the left of the highway. The structure’s glass roof reflected the light back toward the water, and everything around him gleamed in pure gold.

The City of Lights . . . even in broad daylight.

Megan led the way past Grand Palais and back into the tangle of city streets. Five minutes later, Wolfgang’s bike ground to a halt in a narrow parking space next to Megan’s and Kevin’s. He cut the motor and lifted his helmet. Megan and Kevin were already gone, splitting off in different directions as predetermined by Edric.

“Charlie Three, hurry it up,” Edric snapped. “Eyes open!”

Wolfgang ran his hand through his hair to straighten it, then adjusted his jacket and hurried toward the café.

All around him, bustling Parisians collided with clueless tourists, laughing and shouting, pressing each other to the side and waving for cabs. In that respect, at least, Paris was no different than any big city. Lots of people crammed in a small place, all hurried and animated, and fully consumed by the human experience. Except that today, unbeknownst to the tourists and locals alike, one CIA agent, a team of armed operators, and maybe a couple of Russian assassins, were lost in the mix.

A police car rolled by, and Wolfgang resisted the urge to look at it. His stomach twisted, and he pressed his arm closer to his side, feeling the gun against his ribcage. What would happen if he were caught in Paris, armed and undocumented? Would Edric bail him out?

“Charlie Lead, I have a visual on Raven,” Megan said, jarring Wolfgang back to the job at hand. “He’s taken a seat inside the café, near a window.”

“Copy that, Charlie One. Any sign of our Russian friends?”

“Negative. But I’m still fifty yards out.”

“Move into the café and assume a surveillance position. Charlie Two, move one block down Saint-Germain. Charlie Three, take up surveillance opposite the café.”

Wolfgang quickened his walk as the café appeared at the next street corner. The building was six stories tall, triangular in shape, and dressed in stunning French scrollwork, with the café built into the bottom floor. Tourists and Parisians crowded around the entrance, and every table visible on the other side of the glass was occupied.

“Shouldn’t I remain close to the café?” Kevin barked across the com. “Charlie Three can take distance. I need to be closer to the target—”

“Assume your assigned position, Charlie Two,” Edric said.

Wolfgang caught sight of Kevin fifty yards, headed away from the café. His posture radiated irritation, and the bigger man cast frequent glances over his shoulder.

That’s why Edric wants you in the shadows. You’re too obvious.

Wolfgang stepped onto the sidewalk, opposite the café, and shoved his hands in his pockets, pretending to admire the building’s decorative stonework as he surveyed the block, one angle at a time.

“Charlie Three in position,” he whispered.

“Charlie One in position.”

Wolfgang glanced across the café’s entrance, hoping to catch sight of Megan. He couldn’t see her, and he briefly wondered how the hell she’d gotten inside the café at all. It was packed to the brim.

“Charlie Two?” Edric asked.

Kevin’s voice was curt. “In position.”

“Great. Eyes sharp, now,” Edric said. “Any sign of Spider?”

All three of them radioed back in the negative, and for a while, the coms went silent. Wolfgang stood next to the curb amid the throng of pedestrians and surveyed the block, doing his best to look like just another tourist, starstruck by the Parisian fairytale around him.

Raven sat next to the window. Seeing him in person did little to alter Wolfgang’s impressions of him based on the photograph. He was tall, with hair as black as night—hence the call sign, perhaps. Late forties, maybe early fifties, depending on how his genetic dice had fallen. Raven ordered a drink in a white china cup and sipped it while pretending to read a book. Wolfgang could tell by the angle of the man’s face that he was reading the crowd outside the café rather than anything on the page.

Wolfgang switched his attention to the faces that passed along the sidewalk, searching for a Russian assassin. What did Russian assassins look like, anyway? Not like the movies, surely. Not dressed in black, with pale eyes and silenced pistols. No, these people would be professionals, trained to blend in, just like he was. And in this environment, crowded with noisy people and honking cars, it would be as easy for an assassin to vanish as it was for Wolfgang or for Spider.

Which means I’ll never find them in this crowd.

Not only would he not find them, it would also be impossible to protect Spider if he took a seat with Raven directly in front of a window, fully exposed. Wolfgang needed to put himself in the shoes of an assassin. If he were here to kill Spider, and Spider was going to meet with Raven next to that window, where would he be?

Wolfgang’s attention switched from the thronging crowds to the buildings that surrounded the café. The block was wide, with five streets intersecting together in a sort of knot, right in front of the building. On every corner were other buildings, apartments, and offices, with little shops and bakeries on the ground floors, all full of windows and facing the street. People churned in and out of those buildings, hailing cabs and shoving past each other as cars and buses